The last time I ran with my mother my age was in the single digits and she had to sing "Follow the Yellow Brick Road" over and over again to help me make it to the finish line.
On January 31, 2010 - we chose to try running again.
She runs everyday - miles and miles. She is the most fit lady in her age bracket I know.
I am not. I would rather watch a marathon of NCIS than actually run in one.
But we signed up.
Here we are pre-race - all smiles and braces
It was about 40 degrees, but thankfully the wind wasn't too drastic. Dad drove us downtown, and off we went - a happy, loving mother and daughter bundled in more clothes than Eskimos own.
After a final pot-o-gold stop, we hit the start line lining up behind skinny, fast-looking people. And off we went. Mom always says that the first mile is all mental, and that you have to physically force your body to get past the block. However, remember the broken ankle - it is still not happy.
A side effect of breaking my left ankle is that when I run the calf and front shin of my right leg freeze up, become hard, and begin an internal fight for domination. This means that I begin to hobble, limp, cuss, and sometimes cry.
So I am hobbling along, knowing I am not to the first mile, begging Mom to stop, and she is telling me we can do it! I finally quit on her, start limping my way around a turn, and lo-and-behold the one mile sign. Dammit!
I walk a little more, get that muscle to stretch out, and off we go again. We jog the entire rest of the race. I think an old lady with a walker passed us at one point, and Mom even said she had never run that slow before in her life. But we finished and I was thrilled that I could finally stop moving.
So another mile-marker on my journey to a half-marathon - I finished 110 out of 184 for ages 30-39 with a time of 14:27/mile. My mom helped push me to be better and faster, and was a huge support for me.
Dad took us to breakfast, and our family trip ending with pancakes at the 59 Diner on I-10.